


I prayed my mind be good to me

by AWalkingParadox



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, like just after it, perhaps, post frp, somewhat canon compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:13:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26514235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AWalkingParadox/pseuds/AWalkingParadox
Summary: It’s a shame, Peter thinks, insists, to have to kill such a beautiful lady. But, sacrifices must be made. Juno Steel knew his name, his face. He is a liability, a crack in the walls Peter had worked so hard to build.(A faint voice in the back of his mind protests. He locks it away.)
Relationships: Peter Nureyev/Juno Steel
Comments: 19
Kudos: 46





	I prayed my mind be good to me

**Author's Note:**

> Afshsgssjsbdjdbd I edited the title because I realized I mixed up the song lyrics

He hears the click of a closing door. It was a quiet sound, a small tap of metal and wood. It was as innocuous as anything else could be, a footstep or two, the jingle of keys, hushed breaths, and yet. Each small action, each careful sweep of evidence of the other’s existence, a blanket withdrawn and ever so carefully put back into place, a pillow smoothened and fluffed, discarded clothes worn and folded, brought with it inevitability. 

And so it brings us back to the closing door, the quiet turn of a door knob, and the receding footsteps. 

And it brings us to Peter Nureyev. 

He thinks he murmurs Juno’s name just once, a plea or a cry or some last ditch desperate attempt to salvage what vestiges remained of his heart. 

It hurt like fire, this pain. It comes in burning lances, with every hitch and muffled sob that dared break through the walls of  _ Peter Nureyev _ . His shoulders shake with minute tremors, and he wonders that if he listened close, could he perhaps hear his chest fracture? Surely with the  _ weight  _ of this feeling-this grief, no bonecage, no matter how resilient, could bear the agony of such as this. It threatens to crush him, to swallow him in its yawning maw, grinding and howling in a cacophony of empty.

He curls forward ever so slightly, arms wrapping around his midriff, flinchingly in the cold. The dear detective had only left maybe half an hour or so, but the sheets are almost ice to the touch. Perhaps it’s the planet’s natural climate. Perhaps it’s the absence of a lover. 

Perhaps it’s himself. 

He opens his eyes, letting a few tears spill onto the pillow. The city lights and darkened room blink like fairy lights, muted and dazzling and wrong. Wrong because it’s gorgeous, and wrong because it managed to steal what he never could. Neon lights filter in through the blinds, painting his hand a soft pink. Cars blare past on the street. He remains frozen in place. 

Hyperion City. The most beautiful place in the galaxy. In that small, quiet moment, Peter could almost believe it. Without his glasses the city lights blur, coalescing in a backdrop of hues; billboard ads and shady alleyways and leering skyscrapers. Corrupt lawmen, hungry politicians, rising starlets, and fallen has-beens, family, friends, lovers. 

Nameless thieves and petulant detectives. 

With bones resembling rotting wood, he sits slowly up. He draws in a slow, shaky breath, letting the cold air fill his lungs. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Let the chill settle into your bones and the hallowed halls of your heart. Let the steady, stifling calm wash over you. Take your despair, take your grief, take your heartache and fold it away. Fold it away where no one will be able to dig it out again. 

He finds another burning emotion beneath all these, a white hot burning coal. Anger. 

The cars call out in quiet blips, softened by the glass. The lights are bright and garish, glitter and no gold. The city dulls.

His heartbeats pulse beneath his ribs. 

He gets dressed. He cleans up any traces of him, of them. 

The bathroom lights throw harsh white around the tiny room. The porcelain chills him to the touch. His grips it so hard it threatens to break. The man who stares back at him with red rimmed eyes bares his teeth, naked and almost  _ feral _ , remnants of a boy in a floating city, twice orphaned and on the run. 

“Peter  _ Nureyev _ .” He hisses, quietly, furiously, into the mirror, “You were a fool. You were a mistake, a blemish, a monster. And now, you are nothing.”

He takes  _ Peter Nureyev _ , and folds him away. His naivety, his hope, his impossible and _foolish_ love, and folds them away. 

And a mask slips on, as easily as a bullet loaded into a gun. 

Pack the bags. Close the blinds. Comb your hair and smoothen your clothes. Load the cartridge and pocket the blaster. 

Disappear. 

Disappear. 

_ Disappear _ .

He doesn’t stop walking till he reaches a somewhat dilapidated building. It’s depressingly shoddy, looking to be held together with duct tape and prayers. He climbs the fire exit, avoiding every step that creaks(almost every other step), and slides open the window. It almost feels like deja vu, he thinks, as he steps into the office of the Juno Steel Detective Agency.

The office is dark, with the only light coming from the window. It’s lit enough to see the half empty whiskey bottles by the desk. And just past it, a figure, slumped over the synth-wood. 

Asleep or passed out? Peter wonders, lightly pushing a glass away from where it sits precariously on the edge. The lady shifts in his chair, wincing when the swathe of bandages on his eye hits his sleeve wrong. Peter ignores the echo of concern in his chest and stalks around the desk, keeping his footsteps lighter than they’ve ever been. 

Juno Steel, Peter muses, private eye. An ex-cop, now turned detective. A twin, a son. He remembers those late nights, looking through the files of this so-called detective, seeing the small grainy photo of his first day as a cop, a scowl on his face and his blue eyes staring daggers into the camera. He wasn’t bad on the eyes, very kissable lips. 

(That small, grainy photo didn’t compare at all to  _ Juno Steel _ . He was older now, more ragged. Scars littered his face like starbursts, and his eyes. His eyes bore into you like the blaster he carried in his hands, deadly and electrifying. Rex had been thankful, then, for the Dark Matters issued shades. For a long moment, stunned, he had to look away.)

Moonlight falls on Juno Steel like petals on a stream. Gentle, like a stray exhalation could ripple the water. Peter spends a few wasteful minutes just looking. Watching, taking in the curves of his face, the crook of his nose, the frown on his lips. Even now, with the sand and grime tracking his skin, he’s lovely.

It’s a shame, Peter thinks, insists, to have to kill such a beautiful lady. But, sacrifices must be made. Juno Steel knew his name, his face. He is a liability, a crack in the walls Peter had worked so hard to build. 

(A faint voice in the back of his mind protests. He locks it away.)

And more than that, Peter is  _ angry _ . And as much as Peter tries to tell himself that he is a good person, he is first and foremost, a mercenary. A nameless thief. Nameless.

The blaster sits heavy in his hand. He levels it to the crown of the detective’s head. It’s set to kill.

(His hands are shaking.)

The moonlight glints off the metal. He stays frozen, maybe for seconds, maybe for hours. Juno shifts again in his slumber, and the moonlight catches something else. A tear rolls down the side of his face, leaving a trace like rain on a dusty pane. 

And Peter  _ fucking  _ Nureyev, despite his mind’s every protest to  _ stop _ , reaches forward and delicately thumbs the tear away. His hand lingers for a second, for a heartbeat, and that was a  _ mistake _ , because Juno Steel, beautiful, broken, heartbreakingly  _ divine _ , leans into his palm, sleep addled features softening into one of trust, and of awe, and something in Peter Nureyev utterly and irreparably  _ breaks _ . 

He falls to his knees, blaster falling to the side with a muffled clatter. Juno remains undisturbed, unknowing to the hurricane that is Peter’s mind.

(First rule of thieving, a treacherous voice whispers, your heart is a fickle thing. See to it that it never sees the light of day.)

He sits bowed there for hours, long enough to see the first rays of the artificial sun peek over the horizon. It’s every bit as beautiful as Juno made it out to be, second only to the lady himself.

He looks up to steal a glance at Juno. His eye is sunken, bone-tired. Daybreak hits his skin like candlelight on paper, alluring in its fragility. Peter reaches out his freehand to cup the detective gently by the jaw. His fingers ghost the scratches of a stubble, the edge of bone. 

“What have you done to me, Juno?” He murmurs, eyes dipped low in resignation. His breath catches in his throat. “I’d rather my name be broadcasted to all of Mars than have you forget even a syllable. You’ve made a fool of me.” He laughs, then. It’s an acheful laugh, bitter and incredulous, “Though I suppose I only have myself to blame. You are poetry, love, of which I’’ll never be able to know. Quite ironic, eh? I promised you the universe, a gorgeous sight to behold, but how can I when my universe denies me the chance?”

He rocks back onto the balls of his feet, carefully extracting his hands from their hold on the most lovely face in the galaxy. He allows himself a moment of indulgence, a ghost of a kiss on the sleeping man’s forehead, and then turns away.

The unused blaster goes back into its holster. The mask is clipped back into place. The thief disappears. 

In the morning, the detective will wake to a hell of a hangover and to a hell of a dream. The streets and their people will continue drudging on, living a day longer than the last. The stars will continue to orbit. But for now, weary souls rest. Broken hearts falter. The city hums to life.

**Author's Note:**

> hiii  
> its 2 am and i am going to sleep ghvhjbfkdg  
> tell me what you think? :0


End file.
